Take a Chance on Me(69)

He didn’t look at her. Just wove his fingers together with hers.

“C’mon,” she said quietly. “I’ve had enough art for today.”

He said nothing as she led him up the street, past vendors, past the crowds. She wasn’t exactly sure where she might be going, and when they ended up at his truck parked outside her place, she thought he might simply leave her there.

Then, inexplicably, he turned to her. “I know I haven’t been very good company today. But—” he looked at his fingers still laced in hers—“would you be willing to have dinner with me?”

Dinner?

It’s getting late. I have to work tomorrow. She should have said either of those things. Instead, she nodded.

Climbed into his truck. Rode beside him to Evergreen Resort. She knew exactly where Felicity had died now and found herself measuring the road as they drove silently around the curve.

Darek’s fists tightened on the steering wheel and he took a long breath.

Finally, when they reached the dirt road that led to the resort, he said, “I’m sorry.” He had his face glued to the road, but his words flickered in his expression.

“What happened?” Ivy said softly. “One minute you were standing there; the next, I return to find you on the ground with Jensen.”

“I don’t know.”

He pulled into the parking lot, now filled by the hotshots’ trucks and cars.

Darek sat there a moment, then looked at her. “Jensen killed my wife.”

She knew that, but hearing him say it felt so blunt, so raw, that the hurt registered on her face anyway.

“He was driving, and she was out for a run, and . . .” He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

She swallowed, nodded, pretty sure this wasn’t the end of it.

Darek got out of the truck. “I have a couple steaks in the fridge, and my sister made some fresh bread yesterday. I’ll just be a moment.” He left her standing on the path while he disappeared inside his parents’ lodge home.

The woods trapped the heat, the scent from a lush blanket of pine needles, the wind filtering through the paper birch. She walked out past the lodge and saw a canoe pulled up to the beach, a pontoon boat at the dock. A crow called from a nearby perch.

“A man can forget up here,” Darek said behind her. He held a stainless steel bowl with a head of lettuce, tomato, red onion, and cucumber. From his fingers dangled a bag with a loaf of bread.

She took the bowl from him. Considered him a moment. “Or he can try.”

Darek tried a smile and then nodded, walking past her.

Ivy fell in step with him, their feet soft on the path. Roots crisscrossed the trail as it wound through the woods to his little house.

Darek set the fixings down at an outside table. “I’ll be right back.”

Ivy waited on the porch, looking out at the lake. What might it have been like to grow up here, at a place embedded with so much peace? With legacy? With his family right down the trail, his name carved into the trees? This was Darek’s land—Evergreen.

He had no idea what it felt like to be uprooted.

Darek emerged from the house with a cutting board, plates, a couple knives, two napkin rolls with silverware, and two fresh steaks on a serving platter. On a second trip he brought a couple Cokes, salt and pepper, garlic, blue cheese salad dressing, setting it all on a table on his deck.

“That’s quite the place,” she said, gesturing across the lake.

He didn’t look up.

Oh, this might be a bad idea after all.

“Jensen Atwood lives over there, in that big house.” He unwrapped the steaks and turned to light the grill, a six-burner gas affair. It roared to life, and he turned down the heat, closed the hood. He stared at it for a moment; then, “We grew up together.”

“You and Jensen?”

“And Felicity and Claire. They were two years younger than us, so they were always a little off-limits. We spent every summer right there, out on that lake.” He pointed with his tongs. “We were best friends, even after he moved away.”

She picked up a knife, began to cut the cucumber into slices. “Why did he move?”

“His parents got divorced and his mother remarried. His father was bitter, moved him down to Minneapolis.” He salted the steaks. “Jensen hated it. He loved living here, and moving to the Cities tore his life apart. He came back every summer.”

She glanced at him, surprised at the lack of rancor in his voice.

“He was here the summers I was working on the hotshot team in Montana. Well, most of them. He came to Montana the first year, but . . . it didn’t work out.”

She reached for a tomato.